


The Flow Of Darkness

by HalfshellVenus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Season One, slightly AU): Sam’s dreams and an investigation coincide in Michigan, where new revelations await both brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bespoken

**Author's Note:**

> Written during mid-S1 and reposted here for archiving. This could be considered to take place in the S1 future, as Sam’s powers develop beyond what canon showed in mid-S1.

~*~

It is midnight in Michigan as the car follows the road leading past the dark river. Both brothers are tired. Dean’s eyes are burning and gritty as he follows the center line, and Sam is slumped down again in the passenger seat. 

Their clothes are slightly damp from sitting in the trunk for weeks—hastily traded for the charred remnants of tonight’s escapade. Sam doesn’t mind the bone-burning rituals that settle troubled ghosts, but he hates battling anything that involves fire. The smell and feel of fire bring back the horror and the helplessness of losing Jess. It’s been ages now; he wonders if that will ever fade. He would ask Dean… but if it bothers Dean he won’t admit it-- and if it doesn’t, he’ll pull out some vague words of comfort to keep Sam from feeling like a baby. Either way, the same non-answer is waiting.

Half-immobilized by fatigue, he lets his mind stretch out toward the black ribbon of water. He skims the flow, the rivulets and reeds, but senses nothing. This is not their destination, but he is still reassured.

A glance over at Dean reveals heavy eyes and his brother chewing on his lips. It is Dean’s way of trying to stay awake, but there is half a chance he’ll hypnotize himself instead. Sam places a hand on top of Dean’s, firming the steering wheel, and the reaction is too long in coming. 

“We’d better find a room,” Sam says, and Dean nods in resignation. 

By the side of the highway there is a small motel, barely visible in the moonlight and halfway back in the trees. A musty smell greets them as they unlock the door to their room, unpleasant and familiar all at once. Dean is too tired to shower, and falls into bed moments after brushing his teeth. Sam lathers the smoke out of his hair and scrubs over any charcoal-tinted areas of skin before calling it quits and heading to bed.

Hours later, he is standing before a lake of gleaming moonlight. The surface parts below him, and someone rises up into the evening air. She is indefinable, both motion and stillness, her essence green and transparent—unknowable and half-formed. Her hands are like water, liquid and unbound as they reach into him and pull his thoughts out of his head. There is a staggering pain as if all sense of self is being drawn out of him, and he wakes in a rush as runnels of memory slip down his face.

Dean is sound asleep in the other bed, and Sam waits a full two minutes before sneaking over and quietly climbing in next to him. Dean doesn’t even stir, and Sam counts himself lucky as he moves closer, laying his cheek on the edge of Dean’s shoulder. There is a faint scent of ashes in Dean’s hair, and it is the smell of everything Sam has ever sacrificed or loved. He doesn’t know whether that should frighten him or comfort him, and so he just breathes it in like memory. The warmth of Dean’s skin is like a touchstone, the claim of the physical world over the realm of spirits and premonitions. It soothes Sam like the answer to a prayer. 

His dreams are becoming more vivid, and he is immensely relieved every time he wakes up. He knows he can’t expect it—that some day he might not make it back. The possibility of being trapped there is always real, and he has already felt the threat of living in pasts and futures and possibilities while the present lingers just out of reach. 

There are at least a few minutes of every night where he thinks that has already happened.

Dean stirs under him, a slight groan forming. “Again?”

“Sorry,” Sam says. He hopes Dean’s not in the mood to pick this apart tonight.

His brother shifts down slightly, and Sam welcomes the chance to burrow his head into Dean’s neck. 

“Do we need to go save someone?” 

Dean’s half-asleep again by the time Sam’s answer comes. “No. Nothing’s happening to anyone in particular.” He neglects to mention himself in that sentence, to voice that squirming sensation of something being taken from him.

There is no response, and Sam slides an arm over Dean’s waist and thinks of floating to the rhythm of Dean’s breathing. This place between sleeping and waking is a Limbo state, like wanting and having, like living and dying. Sam’s not sure he’s ever left it.

~*~

Nothing has forced him awake, but his eyes are open and searching in the dark. There is no hint of noise or movement, and no “feeling” in the room. Sam’s head lifts as his gaze sweeps across the windows and corners. There is nothing unusual there. His eyes follow the blue path of moonlight through the curtains, coming to rest on his brother lying beside him. Dean is on his back, head tilted toward him, and his chest rises and falls like the sea inside of Sam. His skin has the sheen of silk, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat at the thought of touching it. 

As a child, he always knew that Dean was beautiful. It was as much a fact of life as the warmth of sunshine or the sharpness of sorrow. As they got older, Sam’s problems with their father increased. Soon he and Dean were out of synch, and then Sam’s leaving broke their closeness into fragments. He can no longer just watch his brother, for all his thoughts are suspect now and his presence is not to be relied upon. Dean keeps anticipating his disapproval, not in the everyday sense but in the way that a child fears being abandoned. It’s as if Sam looks long enough, he might find another reason to leave. Dean’s flaws are all too close to the surface-- he doesn’t need an audience for every awkward joke or bad decision. 

There is too much between them for either to let his guard down. Sam misses seeing Dean in stillness, misses the calm that Dean used to give him.

He leans closer now, taking in those heavy eyelashes and unfurrowed brow. Asleep, Dean is like nothing so much as a fallen angel, and Sam aches for that innocence that was taken so long ago. His eyes are drawn to those lips, so perfect and full, and he kisses them more softly than air. It is like tasting completion, like stealing love, and he loses himself in a brief swell of lost feelings.

He doesn’t notice the slight return of pressure, and before he can think about that Dean is awake and time has stopped.

“Were you kissing me?” For once, Dean is out of his depth.

“Kind of,” Sam murmurs, knowing that answer is as ridiculous as it sounds.

“What for? Were you dreaming?”

It’s an easy way out, but saying it would be lying to himself. “No.” Sam leans back on his elbow, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I was feeling lonely. Inside, I mean.”

Dean’s eyebrows lift, and he rubs a hand over the back of his own head. “We could find you a cocktail waitress tomorrow, something like that.”

“No,” Sam scowls. “That doesn’t fix loneliness. That’s using someone.”

“Everybody needs that kind of closeness, even for a little while. It helps.” Dean’s voice is quiet.

“Not for me,” Sam says before he realizes how that sounds. He starts again. “It’s not the same as when it’s real, not once you’ve known what ‘real’ is. What I had with Jess… I could have spent a lifetime like that.” His voice trails off as he raises his eyes to Dean’s. “You get used to being loved. And there’s no way not to miss it.”

“But I’m not… it’s not--” Dean stops for a minute. “I can’t be that for you. I mean, you’re my brother and that’s… everything… but you’re my _brother_. It’s not supposed to be like that between brothers.”

“I wasn’t asking for that, Dean. Honestly,” and Sam’s voice is a little exasperated. “But sometimes I miss _giving_ love even more than having it. That’s all. Otherwise, it’s going to die inside of me and there might not be more where that came from. Maybe it’s too late already.”

There’s something uncomfortably familiar about that train of thought, and neither of them wants to look at it too hard. Sam knows Dean has made a habit of not thinking further than just a few days into the future, and that certainly has its advantages in a life like this.

Dean rubs Sam’s arm in reassurance. “After we find this thing that killed Mom and Jess, you’ll have that, Sam. There’ll be a chance for you to do all of it the way you want.”

The unspoken image of their father’s stark and fruitless searching—more than twenty years of anger and isolation-- lies in the air between them. They will not discuss the alternative. There will be no admission of how things are more likely to go.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” Dean asks. Deep conversations in the night were never Dean’s style, and Sam can tell he’s itching to get back to sleep again. 

“Sure,” Sam answers, and starts to pull off the covers. 

Dean’s hand stops him. “You can stay,” he says. “Just watch the elbows, and no more romancing in the dark. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sam says softly. There is a slight smile in Sam’s tone, but the darkness hides how quickly Sam’s face returns to sadness.


	2. Sought

~*~

Morning brings another cryptic phone call from their father, pointing them toward a town two hours to the east. Mysterious disappearances have begun in the last two months, and he thinks it’s worth looking into. 

After a breakfast of Pop-Tarts and bad coffee, they find the place within hours. Coming up on the outskirts of town, Sam can see a black lake in the distance, surrounded by trees. Something tugs at the edge of his memory, and he is suddenly uneasy.

“Are you sure this is it?” he asks, and Dean gives him a funny look.

“You read the map-- you know it is. What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, and he glares out the window. When his feelings are justified by research or by specific visions it’s one thing, but when he just has a vague sense of _wrongness_ … there’s no explaining that. It makes him feel like a nervous little kid again, and he’s not admitting that to Dean anytime soon.

They pull into a beat-up gas station, and look around the property for someone to talk to. No-one seems to be on the premises, which is a little odd for a weekday morning. They try the corner grocery store next, which falls silent within seconds of them coming through the door. Not even Sam’s easy charm coaxes much out of anyone other than the names they already know and the dates of the disappearances.

Dean moves the car farther down the road, and they double back on foot to look through the forest. It could be someone in town, or someone passing through, but when evil finds a nexus like this it’s usually because something that slept has woken up. The forest is right on the town’s edge, creeping up on its houses, and if they had to place bets they would guess that whatever the agent of evil is, that’s where it lives.

There is a cave, which registers absolutely nothing on Dean’s Creature Meter. It might be safe, or maybe it isn’t, but they keep looking for more promising results. They pass a creek, sparkling in the sunlight. Sam watches the light dance on the ripples even as the smell of turning leaves nags at him. It’s like he’s missing something that’s right in front of him, but for the life of him he just can’t see it.

The trees become thicker as they move on in, less than half a mile from the roadway now. Pushing through underbrush and past tree trunks, they find themselves at the edge of a lake—most likely the one they saw driving into town. Sam looks left, right, peers into the darkness at the far side. It’s just a lake, as far as he can tell, and there are no more clues here than anywhere else they’ve searched. The view is peaceful despite the overcast sky, and Sam thinks that if you have to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, there might as well be good scenery to go with it.

They wander the periphery of the lake, scoping out a large area on each side. Still nothing. There aren’t even any bits of clothing or other signs of people being taken against their will. Sam lets his feeling run in wide arcs around the forest, but he’s either ‘off’ today or there’s nothing there to find.

They head back to the car using a slightly different path, looking, combing, probing. The car is suddenly there in front of them, and the only thing they know is what they _didn’t_ find.

“Want to try going door to door?” Sam asks, leaning back against the passenger side.

“Not unless you want to get shot. This is a _really_ friendly town, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Sam sighs. “We’ve worked with less. Just not the way I like to do things.”

“I hear you.” 

They drive the short distance back to town, stopping in at the café for lunch. Dean works on the waitress, and he gets a family to contact and a very large piece of pie out of the deal.

“Want a bite?” he asks, holding a forkful out to Sam. It’s chocolate with whipped cream, and Sam reaches out and pulls Dean’s hand in, claiming the offering in one swift movement. 

“Mmm.” His eyes close for a moment in enjoyment before releasing Dean and the fork. It is very hard to go wrong with chocolate cream pie, and he’s never had a bad one yet. When his eyes open, Dean is just looking at him.

“Man, we have got to get you laid,” Dean says in awe. Sam’s blush goes right up to the tips of his ears.

“What’s next?” he says hoarsely, as much to change the subject as anything.

Dean snaps out of the moment, and gets down to business. “We’re going to talk to the Brodys this afternoon. Might get some of the details out of them we’re missing.”

~*~

What they have, when it’s over, is the beginning of a pattern. Nightime disappearances, all one person at a time and all young adults. 

They also have an offer of a place to stay, but Sam declines for them with irrefutable sincerity. It isn’t that they always say no, but there are ground conditions that are hard to meet. They don’t sleep in separate rooms when they’re hunting something. They don’t stay anyplace where the house environment or the inhabitants (living or dead) might be part of what they’re hunting. And if they’re in a position to clean up their salt circles and barriers without drawing attention to them, so much the better.

It’s hard to explain to good people that the scary motel down the street is really where they want to be, but Sam manages the way he always does. Everyone is happy and convinced when they leave, and Dean never quite knows how Sam does it. It’s a gift.

They check into the motel mid-afternoon, and prepare for bed after a good-sized snack. The alarm is set for 11 p.m.—they’ll doze now and hunt later, a fairly typical tactic for this kind of job.

Five rooms—three fire-damaged, and the other one is booked (in the off-season no less). This one has a fairly large bed at least, pictures framed in twigs, and a beat-up pair of rabbit-ears to go with the pliers standing in for the television’s channel knob.

The TV is on low for the white noise and distraction, and the blinds are pulled and the covers drawn up. Dean is leaning on one elbow and absently rubbing the back of Sam’s neck while Sam tries to relax and stop thinking. Sam has trouble sleeping in the middle of the day, and this usually works-- though half the time Dean is asleep before Sam’s even close to drifting off. The soap opera dialogue buzzes indistinctly in the background as the slow effects of too much late-night driving start to take effect for them both. 

~*~

There is moonlight on black water, and the sound of wind up in treetops out of reach. The edges of the lake are too dark to be seen across the way, but something white gleams hazily along the shore. It moves toward him fluidly, gathering substance until Sam can see that it’s a face suspended in the air. Closer, closer it comes, gliding over the water until something glistens. A hand breaks the surface, grabbing hold of blackness below the face that has solidified as being Dean’s, and Sam hears his brother’s voice yell out it in angry denial as Dean goes from visible to vanished in half a second.

Sam lurches awake in the bed, breathless and choking, and his hands find Dean in the dark. He traces the sides of Dean’s face in rapid, lung-filling relief, mouth finding Dean’s for a single, sharp moment, and then his brother’s neck. Dean struggles out of sleep as confusion and arousal battle each other, only to strain against Sam’s arms hugging him much too tight. 

He pats Sam’s shoulder awkwardly, waiting for his brother’s panic to back away. 

“What was it?” he finally asks.

Sam huffs against Dean’s neck, which is just a _little_ too much sensation right there, but Dean shakes it off and focuses on the job at hand.

“Sammy…” He turns toward Sam, just waiting, as he lets that hang in the air.

“Nothing?” Sam tries.

“Nuh-uh,” and Dean’s all business now. “Something’s been bothering you for days, and you’re getting weirder every night. Spill it.”

Sam sighs again, and that tingling on his skin makes Dean’s leg squirm for a second before he gets it under control. 

“I’m dreaming about something in the water. Something dangerous. It wants… me, I guess. Or you. Or maybe that’s just part of the dream—could be that it’s waiting for me, or that it has nothing to do with me. I can’t tell.”

Dean is already stroking slow calmness into Sam’s back. “What happened tonight?” 

“It took you,” Sam whispers hoarsely, and his body is tense again already.

“No, Sammy, it’s okay. I’m right here.” That doesn’t mean as much as it used to, before the visions started, but Sam knows it’s the best Dean’s got. “We’ll figure it out,” Dean whispers, and Sam relaxes into him in response. 

His arm tightens around Dean’s waist as Sam kisses his neck like he could never leave him. Dean is bowstring tight in half a second. He turns, eyes seeking Sam’s in the dark, and Sam moves into him, around him, with him and his mouth is covering Dean’s with such deep-seated longing that Dean is kissing him back before he can find a reason not to. 

Sam’s fingers smooth away the doubts as he offers Dean every hidden depth of his love. His hands and lips say the things that Dean would never hear, if they were spoken, because Sam alone is responsible for Dean’s mistrustful heart.

When Dean’s arm steals up his back and into his hair, it is the answer Sam’s been waiting for. 

Sam kisses deeply, languidly, giving back everything he so carelessly threw away. Dean had invested so much of himself in his brother that Sam carried pieces of him everywhere he went. After all that, whatever made Sam think anyone but him could fill the hole he left when he took so much of Dean away?

Each kiss drives his apology home deeper, each sweep of his hands over Dean’s forehead, cheeks, shoulders, neck says it louder: _I see how selflessly you loved me. I’m sorry I didn’t know it sooner._

He rolls the two of them on their sides, one arm pulling Dean to rock against him as the other hand moves down to the heat between them. He pulls, strokes, and kisses until Dean whimpers against his mouth and they are soaked in wetness and warmth. Dean’s shaking and his breath is shuddering now, and Sam realizes that _he_ was not the one actually starving for love. This thing he lost when Jess died, that has marked him with its absence, is something Dean had long ago given up any hope of ever _having_. 

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he whispers, echoing Dean’s own words back to him. But this time they mean everything, because Sam was who needed to say it.

When Dean finds him, loves him so tenderly until he is quaking with emotion and need, his last fleeting thought before the light blinds him inside of his head is that he broke Dean by leaving those four years ago, and that staying is the only healing that matters.


	3. But Now Am Found

~*~

He is wrapped around Dean when the watch alarm goes off, and it takes him a moment to register what it means. 

“Dean.” His voice is low and sleep-ridden.

His brother stirs and squints lazily in the darkness, then presses the heel of his hand against his left eye. His voice is rough. “Aren’t you the one that usually says, _Do we have to?_ ”

“Want me to say it now?” Sam mumbles into Dean’s shoulder.

“Won’t help. You know we do. It’s why we came.” 

_Thanks, Dad,_ Sam thinks, as he rolls to the side and lets Dean sit up. 

Dean’s not looking at him, and Sam can’t tell whether he’s sorry or afraid. 

“It’ll be all right,” he says softly. “We’ll work through it,” and it’s an answer no matter what the question was.

Dean pats Sam’s leg, and hauls himself out the side and into the bathroom. The edges of his hair are wet when he comes back, and he drags on clothes and secures weapons in alternate stages. They’ll cover their bases, since they don’t know what they’re dealing with, and Dean’s got the full array going—guns, knives, fire, rock salt, silver bullets, holy water, iron and wood. They’re heavy and bulky, weighing down his belt and his jacket, but they are a soldier’s burden and they both got used to it long ago. 

Sam’s dressed, armed, and they slide out the door. 

It’ll be recon, unless they get lucky or unless someone shoots them while they’re sneaking around town looking for clues. They move quietly, circling around houses and looking in shadows, going as quickly as they can and leaving barking dogs in their wake.

Nothing. No smells or sounds out of the ordinary, nobody wandering around except them. Sam tilts his head toward the woods, and Dean follows him into the trees.

Sweeping sideways, back and forth in methodical patterns as they cover the ground, they are guided by the silver slant of the nearly-full moon. No flashlights—to keep from driving away what they’re hunting—and they are both searching and using themselves as bait at the same time.

They are finally near the water’s edge an hour later, where the creek flows out of its source. Something is… different now. There’s a presence here that was missing in the earlier part of their search. Sam can’t tell what it is, or what it wants, but that sense of _awareness_ is tingling all over him. It has come and gone over the last few months, but it is getting more accurate over time. Sam moves closer to the water now as he feels the inescapable pull. 

The lake is no longer empty. Something is reaching to him from under its depths.

He is frozen inside, and his legs carry him forward before he even realizes it’s happening. The water cleaves before him, sluicing off the rising form that is drawing him in, speaking meaningless words inside his head. His stomach is clenched, his lungs airless, and the pressure in his brain is so hard that he can barely think. He strains against the distraction, and now he recognizes this. 

It’s his dream. This is the battle he’s lost again and again these last few nights. 

If he could get his head back long enough to _think_ , he could do something about it. There is no room for his own thoughts to connect anymore with all of this pushing, crowding, and aching filling up his skull. 

“Sam!” Dean yells, knocking into him roughly before he walks right into the water. “What the hell are you doing?”

 _What?_ Sam hadn’t even known his feet were moving. 

"I—" he starts, but then Dean’s gone completely still. His brother’s eyes are locked on the wraithlike figure in the center of the lake, and unbelievably—impossibly-- Dean is skimming slowly through the air toward the water. Sam thinks _Dean can’t be floating,_ but clearly he _is_. 

Dean is about to be taken. This must be how it happens.

“No!” Sam yells out. This is absolutely _not_ going to be the end of it. 

Sam pulls out his guns, one loaded with regular bullets and the other with the rock-salt kind, and fires off several shots of each. It doesn’t help—Dean is over the water now, still being pulled in toward destruction. The air is filled with a kind of electrical hum.

Bullets clearly are not the answer, and Sam is too far away to try knives. He racks his memory for words and chants, but he is out of ideas and nearly out of time. Dean is clear out over the middle of the lake, powerless and immobilized. In a heartbeat, he is sucked down below the dark surface of the water as Sam watches in sickening terror.

 _No-one is taking him from me!_ A quick rush of anger overrides the edges of his panic, and Sam becomes a force of concentrated fury. The groundswell of his rage focuses on the source of malevolent power surrounding that silent creature-- and suddenly, an explosion lights up the sky. A shockwave blows out to the edges of the lake, and Dean is thrown up out of the water even as Sam is felled by the blast.

 _What--_ “Dean! Dean!” Sam stumbles into the wetness, sinking into the lake bed on his way to his brother. He struggles out further, weighted down by clothes and weapons, until he is near enough to haul Dean up by his jacket and drag him closer to shore.

Dean coughs, watering spewing up before he catches his breath, and then Sam stops moving and is crushing him to his chest. Dean sways under the assault. 

"Wh—" he sputters, but Sam kisses him so hard he can’t breathe. It’s warm and liquid, filling the empty corners of his soul, and he’s drowning in all that it means. When they break off, Sam’s worried eyes drink him in. He brushes a hand over Dean’s cheek before kissing him again and again, and then urges Dean out toward the shore.

“What just happened?” Dean rasps out, glancing back over his shoulder.

There are not going to be enough words for Sam to explain it in a way he even understands himself. He feels shaky and slightly sick, and he is nowhere ready to talk about it. “What part of it?” he asks, stalling to clear his head. 

“All of it, Sam! Why were you walking into the lake, and how did I get in there too?”

Sam feels the cold setting in, from the water and from what he’s done. His words tumble out in a rush. “It was in my head. It was using up all my thoughts, and then the next thing I knew you were floating across the water and it was taking you, just like in my dream.” _It must have taken all those people,_ he realizes. _The lake must be full of their bones._

Dean looks uncertain. “If I was floating, how come you were walking?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it had a bigger hold on me—maybe it can work me. Because I can hear it.”

“That makes no sense to me whatsoever. Not that any of this does.” Dean sighs, and leans down to slap the water out of his pants. “So what did you do to it? Why didn’t it get us?”

 _Because I killed it,_ Sam thinks, but he isn’t ready to say it. His jaw is tight and his eyes evade Dean’s. “I’m not sure why we got away. But it’s gone.” _I felt it die,_ his conscious whispers even as his mind seeks a way to avoid thinking about it. It is one thing to practice setting off matches or floating plastic cups when Dean is out of the room, but suddenly calling forth a killing blow is an enormous uncontrolled leap that leaves Sam rattled and unfocused. It is worse than his visions, and far worse than not understanding his dreams or the reasons he has them. 

“It’s really gone?” Dean’s voice is low, as if he’s afraid of waking something.

“Yes. Whatever it was, it won’t be back.” 

Dean looks into Sam’s face and sees what’s there. “You destroyed it, didn’t you?” he says quietly. There is no hint of judgment in his voice

“Yes,” Sam whispers. Dean gathers him close, holding tight and rocking slowly in gentle comfort. “It’s what we were looking for, wasn’t it?” he murmurs in Sam’s ear. Sam nods against him, unwilling to speak.

“Then it’s just another kind of hunting, Sam,” he says. “It’s like any other weapon you use when you need it.”

Sam’s breath hitches for a moment. He understands the logic and he knows that Dean is right, but that power was new and merciless and it is more than he knows how to cope with. 

“Let’s get back,” Dean says softly, and he puts an arm around Sam’s waist and helps pull him along as he goes. They are at the hotel before long, and Sam’s adrenaline fades rapidly as soon as it’s in sight. He’s tired—hell, he’s _drained_ \-- and there’s a new part of himself that he doesn’t understand and that wasn’t there yesterday.

Dean unlocks the door, but stops without going in. Sam sways in the doorway next to him, just waiting.

“Sam,” Dean says, reaching a hand out to steady his brother. Dean’s earnest eyes contrast oddly with his wet clothes and lake-slick hair. “You can’t be the first person this has ever happened to. Someone has to know how to control it. We’ll find them.”

“And what if we don’t?” Sam asks, all his weariness coming through in just a few words.

“Then we’ll figure something out,” Dean answers. “Like we always do.” 

He brushes the hair out of Sam’s eyes, and steers him toward the bed that is waiting to embrace him. Sam collapses on it, too exhausted to move, and after a moment Dean undoes Sam’s shoes and starts pulling off his wet clothes. This isn’t new, Sam realizes dimly. This isn’t because of what has changed between them. This is how Dean is. Dean has always taken care of him when he most needs it, and half the time Sam doesn’t even notice it.

He grabs Dean’s wrist as it pulls the bedspread down. “Thanks,” he says softly, and Dean shrugs it off and keeps going. “Dean,” he says more loudly, and finally his brother looks at him. “Don’t make it so easy for me to take you for granted. You deserve better than that.”

Dean’s eyes are so large and still then that Sam knows those words have finally reached him. He reaches a hand out, and when Dean takes it he draws him down to sit on the bed. He guides Dean down against him and holds him until the clammy fabric against his skin makes him shiver. 

“You need to rest,” Dean says, and he maneuvers Sam under the covers and settles him in. “Will you be warm enough to sleep?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Sam answers, already too tired to care. 

“I’ll be back after a hot shower, but don’t wait up for me,” Dean says, and his kiss lets Sam know that it’s the truth and not just an excuse. Dean lays Sam’s pants over the back of the chair and takes off his own shirt and jacket to drape them on the lampshade and doorknob. There is a faint squishing sound as he walks into the bathroom, and Sam smiles faintly as the door drifts shut and the room grows dark.

The shower goes on, and the quiet roar fills Sam’s head with a lulling distraction. He turns on his side, worn out and ready for sleep.

By the time Dean returns Sam is barely awake, but the shifting mattress and moving covers rouse him briefly.

Sam turns and wriggles toward that solid warmth, and Dean settles him in closely, reassuringly. A soft kiss brushes Sam’s forehead, and a strong hand strokes through his hair slowly, soothingly.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs happily, and his brother’s sigh admits the release of guarded tension.

Content—complete—Sam sinks into the comfort of Dean’s arms.

Anchored at last, and safe for now, he sleeps in weightlessness in a world without dreams.

 

_\------- fin --------_


End file.
